


Written in Skin

by RivetingFabrications



Series: Jaytim Week 2016 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, mention of torture and abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7645594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RivetingFabrications/pseuds/RivetingFabrications
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything changes when the rain blows in the most unlikely of customers to Jason's parlor, and the past doesn't predict the end.</p><p>Jaytimweek prompt 1: Tattoo</p><p>“The tattoo, on the underside of your right wrist,” he says hesitantly, and Jason’s heart sinks.  Of course Tim would ask the hard questions off the bat, not even asking for any sort of credentials or license to view. Of course Tim saw the tattoos adorning the vulnerable skin of his wrists, he must have been staring at them for over an hour.</p><p>“Ah. That,” he says in a way he desperately hopes comes off as casual. Goodbye, valued customer. “I got it a long time ago.”</p><p>“It’s the Arkham Asylum symbol,” says Tim quietly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written in Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I lost inspiration for this prompt if i'm honest, but hopefully you guys will enjoy :) 
> 
> Thank you to [theunavenged](http://theunavenged.tumblr.com/) for reading it over :3

The tiny bell chimes merrily, a muted crystal sound jangling against the handle as the gust blows in a young man with the sharpest pair of blue eyes Jason has ever seen. The door is wrestled shut against the storm blowing sheets of rain into the parlor, and the man partially leans against it, exhaling heavily.

“Shelter from the rain?” Jason manages to ask conversationally. He’s getting better at small talk, now, but it’s obvious this guy isn’t a paying customer judging by his soaked and rumpled business suit and the fact that it’s a quarter to nine in the morning.

“I – oh.” The young man looks up at him through his soaked fringe that’s dripping delicate trails of water along the ridges of his cheekbones, abashed. “I’m sorry about the mess,” he says awkwardly, glancing down at the puddle at his feet.

“You can put your coat over the radiator, if you want,” Jason says, gesturing in the general direction of it, humming tunelessly as his coffee gurgles. At the sound the man’s nose seems to prick and his face jerks around to avidly stare at Jason’s coffee maker, hands stilling on the button of his business suit.

Jason snorts, but well, Roy has always said he needed to improve his marketing skills. The guy’s not a customer anyway, so he doesn’t have to worry about the guy being restless while being forced to sit still for a long time. He gets up, rummaging for two mugs that aren’t chipped in the cupboard towards the back of the store as the other man neatly drapes his jacket over the radiator.

“I’m Jason,” he says by way of introducing himself, and he passes the second mug to the other, “you look a little young to be corporate.”

“Not the first time someone’s said that to me. I’m Tim Drake.” The younger man smiles at him, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. “God, that smells _heavenly_.”

“I don’t drink any of the kind of crap they sell around the corner,” admits Jason, walking back to the cupboards to fetch a towel. It’s soft and fluffy, and he walks back towards Tim, offering it to him.

“It’s popular,” defends Tim, “and accessible. Thank you.” He smiles gratefully at Jason, scrubbing fitfully with the towel and turning his hair into an even more rumpled mess.

“None of which are redeeming qualities for taste,” counters Jason, narrowing his eyes. Tim acknowledges that with a sheepish smile and a nod, then lifts his mug and drinks. A low moan escapes his lips.

“Are you sure you’re not a barista?” sighs Tim, greedily taking another sip although the temperature is probably still scalding, at least to Jason’s taste buds, anyway. “God, I haven’t tasted coffee this good in _years_.”

“Sorry, I’m never working in the food industry if I can help it,” says Jason wryly. Tim finally looks around the shop properly, looks at the counter and the various designs arranged about the walls, the adjustable table-chair in the back for a greater modicum of privacy.

“You’re a tattoo artist?” asks Tim, blinking up at him.

“Do cats meow?” Jason quirks an eyebrow at him. “Stay as long as you like; as you can see I’m not busy today.”

Tim hums, eyes lingering on the sketches of different patterns lining the walls and the counter. “You’ve got a lot here.” And Jason does; cranes and assorted blossoms of kanji characters and women and tribal designs are inked onto paper, waiting to be etched into skin.

“Those are just the more popular ones.” Tim nods in response, swallows another gulp of coffee, but somehow his gaze, not unlike the hundreds of others before him, lands upon the visible image on Jason’s skin; yet it’s different somehow – something Jason can only describe a quiet, almost scientific but unobtrusive curiosity.

“Did you do that yourself?” Tim asks, indicating it with a polite nod of his head, clearly aiming for small talk.

“Nope,” Jason says shortly, and the branded _J_ on his cheek sinks its tenterhooks into his soul further than any needle could possibly penetrate. Tim, thankfully, senses it’s a sensitive topic, and tactfully changes it.

“How long have you worked here?” he asks, tilting his head up to gaze properly at Jason, and Jason gratefully takes the proffered way out.

“Six years, give or take.”

“Hm.” Tim looks around. “Somehow I never knew there was a parlor in this part of the city. I’m glad I found it, though.” He offers Jason a quick smile.

“Yeah? You’ve got ideas?”

“Something like that.” Tim glances at his watch – Rolex, Jason notes, and while he personally thinks those are in poor taste, the brand status is unmistakable. “Crap, gonna be late.” He glances down at the puddle awkwardly, shuffling his feet.

“I’ll handle it. Wouldn’t want your bosses writing you up or anything.” Jason waves him off.

“Well, more like I’d set a bad form for my employees.” Tim grins at him sheepishly, slinging his still relatively damp jacket around his forearm and grabbing a business card from the holder Jason has set up by counter. “Hey – I’ll come again at some point – I’d love to see more of your portfolio.”

 _Well_. That’s a surprise. Jason offers him a genuine smile. “Wait.” He indicates the umbrella stand with a nod of his head. “Go ahead and grab one.”

“I – are you sure?”

“I have to make sure you come back, right?” Jason grins at him, pleased when a light flush dusts Tim’s cheeks. “It was good to meet you, Tim.”

~*~*~*~

Jason’s actually in the process of retouching Roy’s arm – he’s grateful that his craft has given him the opportunity to cover ugliness with something closer to beauty – when the door chimes merrily and Timothy Drake walks in.

“Good to see that you’re not bringing the rain in, Mister Drake,” calls Jason, and he can’t help the small smile in his face when he sees the red umbrella under Tim’s arms.

“Just Tim, please,” he says, smiling, and Roy twists to grin at him affably.

“Has Jaybird given you the ‘whole don’t get a tattoo while you’re still young’ speech?” he calls, and Jason rolls his eyes. However, to his (pleased) wonder, Tim only returns Roy’s grin with one of his own.

“Well, it’d be a waste of time, since I already have some,” he returns, and Jason’s professionalism allows him to mask his surprise, hands steady on the needle.

“Gonna show and tell?” asks Roy playfully, but Jason frowns at him meaningfully.

“Hey, quit moving or I might actually screw up something here.”

“Jay, you’ve got the steadiest pair of hands I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something. I trust you.” Roy lazily waves to Tim. “Jason’s the best in the city, I can guarantee you that. If you don’t believe me just watch.”

“I – are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Roy smiles at him reassuringly. “You can handle a spectator or two, right Jaybird?”

Jason grunts, but doesn’t refute him. Tim pulls up a seat across from Roy to watch intently, never once flinching as the needle is inserted methodically through Roy’s thick arms. Roy’s adding additional shading to the skull adorning his right arm, and Jason feels a sudden flare of determination to showcase the passion he stakes his livelihood and much of his pride on, to show that all of Roy’s talk wasn’t just for show. Most of all, he doesn’t want to disappoint. He checks over the equipment, the parlor fading away until he’s completely focused on the needle defining Roy’s past struggles and history in dark bold lines concealing the vestigial hints of faded track marks marring flesh. Roy’s not the first one Jason has helped in this way either; the call girls with old scars pass his name along to those ashamed of the wounds their skin bore.

He’s so invested in his work that when he finally looks up, he realizes that the muted conversation had faded long ago, the sun significantly lower in the sky. He locks eyes with Tim, sees that the boy’s gaze flickers up to his, and there’s something gauging there, sincere but probing, a hint of caution.

“What do you think?” he asks, and he’s not sure if he’s talking more to Roy or to Tim. His throat is dry.

“It’s great, Jason.” Roy smiles up at him as Jason neatly bandages his arm up. Jason smiles at him, secretly relieved. Roy turns towards Tim. “Whaddya think, Tim? Think his skills are up to par with what you have in mind?”

“Definitely. Though, I do have a few questions to ask.”

“Sure. I’ll get out of the way; Jade’s waiting for me anyway.” He winks at Jason. “Don’t need the aftercare sheet; I’ve done it often enough.”

“No kidding,” hums Jason. “Say hi to Lian for me.” The door closes behind Roy with a small chime as he turns towards Tim as his hands carefully replace and disinfect equipment the way they have hundreds of times. “Lay it on me.” He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“The tattoo, on the underside of your right wrist,” he says hesitantly, and Jason’s heart sinks.  Of course Tim would ask the hard questions off the bat, not even asking for any sort of credentials or license to view. Of course Tim saw the tattoos adorning the vulnerable skin of his wrists, he must have been staring at them for over an hour.

“Ah. That,” he says in what he desperately hopes comes off as casual. Goodbye, valued customer. “I got it a long time ago.”

“It’s the Arkham Asylum symbol,” says Tim quietly.

“Yeah. I was an inmate there.” Jason inwardly cringes, busies himself with putting away his equipment. “Was a fun house, I can tell you.” He snorts, trying to show Tim that it’s a joke, but no one’s laughing.

Tim doesn’t say anything, and Jason’s too scared to turn away from the cupboards to gauge his expression, so he rearranges items, keeps talking though he knows eventually it’s going to put him in the ground.

“Why were you in there?”

“Why I was institutionalized?” Jason hedges. “This is Gotham. Everyone’s a real piece of work; they just don’t know it yet.” And Gotham brought out the very worst in him. “It’s a…it’s a long story _.” It’s not one you’d like, either._ He gathers enough courage to turn around; Tim’s expression is indecipherable and it sets him on edge. It’s not disgusted, wary, or even uncertain, and that only serves to make Jason even more uncomfortable.

“I’d like to know. Please.”

Well, he wasn’t going to close up shop anytime soon; Jason sighs and takes a seat, gesturing for Tim to do the same. “They didn’t know I was in there; not initially, at any rate. No one who mattered, anyway. They saw some dumb kid in juvie who didn’t know how to take second chances when he was given them.” _And they were right._ “I wasn’t supposed to be in there, but no one knew or cared enough to look into the paperwork.”

_And there, I met him._

“There was a guy there. Crazy green hair, Crazy smile, the works. The worst part? Wasn’t the first time I met him. He knew me just as well as I knew him. Said he ‘never forgot a face.’ And well, a Park Row brat saving _the_ Batman in broad daylight from him years ago was like sitting under a neon stage light.”

“You’ve saved Batman?” Jason’s glad that that’s the first thing Tim picks up on rather than his heritage.

“Well, as much as the Bat needs saving,” Jason deflects. “Sure, that felt good for a bit, and Batman let me off the hook a few times when he caught me doing shady stuff, but in the end, when ends don’t meet and you’re turning tricks on the street, well.” He trails off, lets Tim’s imagination fill in the rest in. He knows Tim’s sort; he knows that someone part of upper crust society couldn’t possibly imagine or even begin to relate to what Jason has done to get by, fueled by the aching bite of an empty stomach. He’s willing to bet good money that Tim doesn’t even know what track marks look like.

“I made the wrong choice one too many times, and when you land in an asylum where the guards answer to the craziest one who ain’t too keen on you for saving his arch nemesis, you can imagine how well that works out. Regardless, he…liked the idea that he was molding me into what he liked. That he was a part of everything I’d ever done, whether that’s true or not.” A bitter smile twists his face. “Anyway, by the time someone finally figured out that something was majorly wrong, I was already eighteen and had served way past my due sentence for juvie. So here we are.” He waits for Tim to fumble a hesitant, fumbling excuse, to walk quickly out of the door and out of Jason’s life. The letter on his cheek burns and itches.

“Do you believe in second chances now?” The sudden, almost non-sequitur nearly makes Jason burst out laughing if it weren’t for the fact that Tim is technically still a customer in his parlor.

“I –” he hesitates, words stuck in his throat. “I don’t know. They don’t come all that often.”

“Yeah,” says Tim softly. “They don’t.”

They sit there in jaded silence, when a timid knock abruptly saws the silence in half.

“You have customers this late?”

“Sometimes.” Jason gets up, escorts the young lady inside away from the bite of dropping evening temperatures. Her makeup is thick, her figure gangly and her eyes exhausted. “Grace, this is Tim. Tim, Grace.”

“A pleasure.” Tim quickly rises, but the way his eyes fall down to the white scars scoring her forearms is a testament to the shock he hides quickly as he shakes her hand cordially.

“Is he…?” Grace’s voice trails off hesitantly, and Jason is quick to reassure her.

“He’s just a friend. He was about to leave.”

“He’s right, actually. I need to head home soon.” Tim inclines his head. “It was good to meet you, Grace. And Jason?” His voice softens. “Thank you for telling me.”

“No – no problem.” Jason will deny to the end of time that his voice cracked as Tim slips out the door, the stupid chime tinkling faintly.

He turns to Grace. “You’ve brought some references, right?” At her quiet nod, he pats her on the back gently. “Great. Let’s get started. What do we have to work with?”

~*~*~*~

It’s three weeks later when Jason is sitting with Grace once again, inlaying his art onto her skin when there’s a solid knock on the door; to his shock, he sees Tim hovering there in the twilight, peering into the well-lit parlor.

“One moment,” he says to Grace, placing his tools back and peeling off his gloves. He unlocks the main door, squints just to make sure he’s not imagining Tim in his rumpled suit after an undoubtedly long day at work.

“You’re a late visitor,” he says, and Tim smiles softly up at him.

“I’ve been busy, and I was passing through and I saw your light on. I’m beginning to think you live in your parlor, though,” he teases gently. “Do all tattoo artists work at nine in the evening?”

“I’m just unique,” grins back Jason, and something in his heart eases, a tension he didn’t realize had been there. “And we’re just about done almost, just maybe a half hour more, if you’d like to wait.”

“I don’t mind at all. Take your time.” Tim sits in the main area while Jason grabs another pair of gloves, sanitizes his hands once more. The shop returns to its usual quiet, the hum of the tattoo machine a familiar and comforting sound.

“Breathe,” he says reassuringly to Grace. Her belly is painted with flowers wrought with lattices, a ribbon curled about a sparrow in mid-flight to obscure the old wounds from an abusive boyfriend Jason swore he’d end if he ever laid eyes on him. He adds the finishing touches, sits back to look at it.

“Looks good, what do you think?”

She smiles at him, a real, gorgeous smile beyond the layers of mascara and lipstick. “You’re a wonder, Jason. Thank you.” He wraps the tattoo with bandages, helps her out from the chair. “Are – are you certain that –”

“No,” he says firmly. “I told you I’d do it for free; I don’t need any payment. Remember, wash it twice a day, no scented soap or lotion. Need another aftercare sheet?”

“No. You’re a blessing, Jason, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.” She smiles at him, a joyful bounce to her step as she passes Tim. Tim’s eyes follow the ink along her arms, tangram cats with an interplay of geometric koi and shooting stars. The bell chimes happily, and then once more Jason is left with Tim alone, silence encompassing the space between them once more.

“I didn’t expect you to come again,” he admits at last, opening the door towards conversation. Tim is quiet, gathering his thoughts, and Jason graciously allows him to do so.

“It took some time to make a decision, that I was ready for someone to… try once more,” admits Tim, and his gaze is so sincere and straightforward it nearly pains Jason, though Tim’s words are a little obscure. “But I feel that …you’re probably the best person for the job.”

Jason’s brow furrows; tattoo shops aren’t _that_ uncommon in Gotham, especially if you’re not worried about the tattooists being licensed, but then Tim was stepping forward, face set with determination. “I’d like for you to be the one to finish my tattoo, if you don’t mind.”

Jason’s mouth dries out, all moisture shriveling up like a raisin in the sun. “I’d be honored,” he manages, “but I’d need to see what I’m working with.”

Tim nods. “I was hoping you’d say that.” His fingers go to the button of his work jacket, unbuttoning it easily and shrugging it off his shoulders like it was satin. His fingers loosen the knot of his tie, tugging it free as the strip of fabric unravels. Then slowly, painstakingly, he turns away from Jason as he drops the clothes onto the chair as he works on his starched white button down. It shouldn’t be sexual, not even in the slightest, but Jason can’t tear his eyes away as Tim’s shirt slides down his shoulders.

It’s violent.

Tim’s back is a crisscross of _something_ – an amalgamation of indistinct shapes all blurred, all black ink and pale skin clashing in violent chiaroscuro. It’s somehow – and Jason is hesitant to say it – somehow _beautiful_ , because there’s something there that draws the eye, like the unfinished statues of Michelangelo trapped in stone, unable to free their spirit from the matter they were bound to. It’s stormy, and it’s painful to look at – the inking was meant to hurt, he can see it as easily as he can see the carnage wreaked onto Tim’s fragile skin. If there was an ink transfer of paper to skin, he can’t see it; there’s only angry black lines and all that comes to mind is Picasso’s Guernica.

He swallows thickly. Tim remains still, barely breathing, though Jason can see the slow rises and dips of his body, thinks that he could probably count the shallow indentations of every rib if he wanted to.

“May I?” he manages, reaching a hand out; he wonders if Tim can see the reflection of him in the windows, if it gives Tim courage to bare himself to him.

A jerky nod. Jason lurches forward clumsily, bereft of all finesse, but he lays a hand against the warm skin of Tim’s back. If it were possible, Tim becomes even stiller, his breath frozen in his chest, as Jason’s hand gingerly maps the contours of his spine. A spray of darkness beneath Tim’s bony shoulder blade, hard ridges of black zigzagging over and around the hard knobs of his spine – it makes Jason cringe.

 _Who hurt you_ , he thinks, _whom did you permit to scar you like this?_

“I was kidnapped,” croaks Tim, and Jason can feel the swallow of air that fills Tim’s ribcage, bringing him to life. “They – they wanted information – at least that was what I thought. But then I learned that…it wasn’t even information they cared out. They just –” Tim can’t finish.

 _They just wanted to laugh as you shattered._ Jason closes his eyes, remembers the shadows of maniacal laughter and barbed wire and his own screams echoing in the dark.

“Batman saved me. He got there in time, before they managed to brainwash me,” managed Tim. “They – sometimes I’m not sure they didn’t.”

“It was – it was Joker, wasn’t it?” murmured Jason, and he feels his heart crack for Tim. “Jesus, how old were you?”

“Not nearly old enough.” Tim deflates. “It – it doesn’t nearly bother me as much as I think it should, since I can’t see my back, but…still.”

“It’ll take a lot of work,” murmurs Jason.

A short laugh, more of a hiccup bubbles past Tim’s lips. “Every other parlor I’ve been to flat out said they couldn’t fix it.”

The strange feeling of refusal to disappoint that Jason’s come to associate with Tim hits him strongly.

“No,” he says firmly. “It doesn’t need fixing.” _Just a little love,_ he thinks privately, the words melting on the tip of his tongue.

~*~*~*~

It beleaguers Jason over the next week, tries to etch out a design in his mind that can breathe life into the violence of Tim’s body, coax the beauty he knows is lurking there to the surface. It haunts his every waking moment, the imprint of Tim’s shame and lowered eyelashes something that makes his blood boil.

No doubt others have considered merely shading in what was left of Tim’s milky skin – but somehow that feels like a copout, the lazy route, and Jason isn’t satisfied with that. Tim himself admittedly had different ideas, but few were truly workable, at least the way Jason pictured them traced onto Tim’s skin as shallow outlines.

The next time Tim comes in, Jason sets a steaming mug of cocoa in front of him.

“I want to know your story,” he says simply, and Tim quirks an eyebrow at him. “I want to create something I know you will want, for the rest of your life.”

Tim’s eyes widen a little, and he breathes out a small, heavy laugh. “All right. But only if you tell me the story of your left wrist.”

Jason flushes a little, self-conscious. “It’s a stupid story.”

“Nothing’s stupid about you, Jason,” chides Tim sincerely as he takes a sip. “But if you’re unwilling –”

“ _No_. No.” He sucks in a breath. “It’ll just – it’ll make me sound a bit like a prick,” Jason laughs softly.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Ok. Well – it’s the cosmological constant.” Immediately Jason berates himself internally. _Way to go, Todd, you could have just said fucking lambda instead of trying to sound like a smartass._

Tim only cocks his head at him. “Go on.”

Fumbling, Jason powers on. “I guess, well. In Einstein’s work, he was trying to perfect his theory of relativity on how the force gravity was created. So he added the constant to his equation, in order to balance it. Turns out it wasn’t needed though. He called it the biggest fuckup of his life.” Jason barks a wry laugh.

“Oh, _Jason_.” Tim blinks at him, his smile fading away as he looks at him with sympathetic, pitying eyes. Jason can barely stomach it.

“Anyway, I guess…it’s just a reminder.” That Gotham’s gravity was inescapable. That everything Gotham encompassed, interacted with, she swallowed that touched her very space and being.

“Is that why you have an infinite loop in the center of it?” asks Tim softly, and Jason tries to shrug nonchalantly, unsettled that Tim was too observant, too astute than many others Jason had met.

He offers a small half-grin that doesn’t fool Tim in the slightest. “People don’t change so easily.” _Just doomed to repeat the same fucking mistakes over and over._

 Tim remains silent, his face partially eclipsed by the mug as he drinks long and deep. Jason’s found Tim’s silences unnerving, his thoughts impossible to ascertain until he spoke them.

“May I?” he asks, glancing up at Jason, his natural poker face driving Jason up an internal wall.

“What? Oh.” He extends his left wrist, but Tim shakes his head in the negative.

“I meant your brand.”

The floor virtually falls away from Jason’s feet. His hands tremble around his own unfinished mug of cocoa. Tim’s eyes are unfaltering, though his uncertainty is palpable.

“If it’s too personal,” he begins tentatively, backtracking, but Jason shakes his head.

“No. I – It’s fine.” God, he’s spent long enough under the influence of the madness in his head taunting him, remolding him – and if there was anyone who could understand, or emphasize even if only a tiny bit – it was someone who had suffered under the hands of the same monster who wanted to watch the universe burn like a match to gasoline, until the fumes consumed even him.

Slowly, Tim’s hand rises, like he’s approaching a scared, lost cat, making sure that Jason can see them. Jason swallows thickly, blinking like a deer in headlights as Tim’s hand settles as a steady, warm weight on his shoulder.

“If it’s too much –”

“I’m not _fragile_.” Jason manages to rein in a snarl, but then Tim’s palm slowly slides up the side of his neck, over his pulse point, and Jason’s mouth snaps shut, his breath hitching as Tim’s heated palm gently cups his cheek, cradles Jason like he’s something to be treasured.

“My parents sent me to Brentwood,” murmurs Tim, and Jason is so disoriented by Tim’s frequent topic changes that he temporarily forgets about Tim’s fingers just resting against his face. “They traveled a lot, so I had a lot of free time. I used to do a lot of photography, was in the Sherlock Holmes club at school, stuff like that. Pretty normal, I guess, except my hobby was running around Gotham late at night to get shots of Batman.”

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Jason, a little awed by Tim’s nerve and audacity. A small, good-humored chuckle escapes Tim’s mouth.

“Yeah. I guess I thought I was invincible then.”

“Go on,” says Jason quietly, and the hand on his cheek trembles minutely as Tim’s thumb painstakingly traces the brand a millimeter per second like Jason’s ink spread over the old scars and battle wounds of Gotham’s victims. Tim sighs, closes his eyes, and tells his story as Jason hesitantly leans into his touch.

~*~*~*~

“It’ll hurt.”

“You say it like you haven’t stabbed me with thousands of needles before,” says Tim serenely, splayed out on his belly with his head resting in the makeshift pillow of his arms.

“Do you want a last look at the design?”

“ _Jason_.” Tim clicks his tongue, smiles reassuringly at him. “It’s good. I gave you the go ahead. I trust you. You’ve got the transfer done already; lay it on me.”

“Right. Got it.”

It’s been a year since that fragile moment in Jason’s tattoo parlor – Tim’s back is nearly done, except for the final section just below Tim’s left ribcage. It’s the gnarliest section of what remains of Joker’s idea of fun – jagged lines of black rending flesh until it became a misshapen, grotesque grin that only rose to the surface if you stared at it for long enough.

The transfer is applied easily – Jason exhales slowly as he silently admires the expanse of Tim’s back. Cruel lines had been blacked out carefully, those that were more malleable were extended, curved, shades added to them. They became ridged, thorny wings, a touch more misshapen than Jason would have preferred but had no choice, until they became a dragon trapped within a briarwood, its neck curled around the meat of Tim’s shoulder blade in a frightful cry.

_“You might look a bit like a mafia boss, probably,” Jason had admitted hesitantly._

_“Some call me that behind my back anyway,” Tim had grinned._

Jason blacks out only a few of the lines this time – they serve as briars snapping under the dragon’s talons, Tim sighs, lulled into a quiet cadence of his breaths as Jason’s needle works in and out through his skin. When the outlines are done, Jason inks in green and red hues, small rosebud designs within the briars to conceal the worst that even Jason’s skill can’t transform, shading until he sits back, exhaling as he goes over the finished product.

There’s an unexpected sense of loss – now that it’s finished, Tim has no reason to return to the parlor. Over time, Jason has come to learn all the unexpected sides of Tim – both the irritating and the snarky sides of him, especially after finishing his corporate job.

He’ll miss him, Jason doesn’t want to say aloud.

“We’re good to go,” he exhales, and Tim groans as he works out the kinks in his arms, the way his shoulders and back muscles roll tantalizing to Jason. He passes the mirror over to Tim, who manages to carefully shimmy into position so he can look at Jason’s handiwork. If Jason’s honest, he can see all the imperfections of his work, where he couldn’t quite make the shading the right hue, a line drawn up a smidge short of a masterpiece.

“It’s perfect,” breathes Tim, and he looks at Jason in a way that makes his breath catch and his palms sweat.

“I’m glad you think that way,” manages Jason, his throat scratchy, grabbing the bandages and gently covers his work. “You know the drill. Need more lotion?”

“I’m good.” Jason nods, grabbing Tim’s shirt and shaking it out, wordlessly helping him slip into it. The dragon slips out of view, and Jason can’t help the tiny brush of his fingertips against the soft hairs of Tim’s nape.

“Jason.” Tim turns gingerly towards him, mindful of the tattoos. “Thank you,” he offers softly.

“Any time.” Tim swallows then, pressing his palm against Jason’s chest; not hard, just a steady presence.

“I…was I wrong about this?” he asks then, and Jason’s brows furrow.

“About what?”

“That…” Tim falters, biting his lip. “That this –” he flaps his hand vaguely in the air. He throws his hands up, visibly frustrated with himself. “ _This_.”

“Er –” but then Tim’s cupping his cheek, his free hand loosely wrapping around Jason’s right wrist as he leans forward, legs dangling off the tattoo bed.

“If I’m wrong,” Tim murmurs, peeking through lowered eyelashes, wetting his lips, “then –”

Jason doesn’t give him time to finish; he closes the gap, presses his mouth to Tim’s like he’s wanted to very badly for a long time. Tim gasps, but then he’s pulling Jason down towards him, their lips moving together briefly before he’s pulling away, face flushed bright red.

“No,” Jason murmurs quietly, closing his eyes when fingertips brush against the J against his cheek, “you weren’t wrong.”

~*~*~*~

Jason sprawls back against the bed, wide eyed as Tim straddles him and presses a slew of chaste kisses against the insides of his wrist, grazing the indelible ink there. He groans as he bucks against him, feels Tim’s hardness pressed up against his thigh as they indulge in heavy kissing.

“Let me make you feel good,” murmurs Tim, sighing breathily into the kiss. He shimmies around until his back is facing Jason, slowly peels his shirt off and tosses it somewhere, and Jason’s mouth waters at the slow reveal of Tim’s back, muscles and dragon undulating as he rocks down onto Jason’s hips.

“I always wondered,” hummed Tim, sighing as Jason sits up and grazes kisses into the crook of his collarbone, “why you never covered it.”

Jason already knows what Tim is referring to. “What’s the point?” he murmurs. “The Joker – he made me into what I am now. Whether it’s covered or not – it’s irrelevant.”

“He didn’t,” states Tim firmly, nuzzling Jason’s wrist and whining softly as Jason’s hands skim down the flat panes of his sides. “Because if he did – we wouldn’t be here, right now. You wouldn’t be tattooing people’s scars free of charge and working late hours.” Tim scrambles out of Jason’s lap to resituate himself facing him once more, pressing Jason down into the soft covers with his hands encircling the older man’s thicker wrists. “And I can prove it to you.”

“Oh?” Jason’s eyebrows raise challengingly, and Tim rocks his hips harder down in response.

“Because I’m the only one allowed to leave marks on you now,” Tim declares, and the soft ends of his hair tickle Jason’s chest as he sucks blooming bruises into Jason’s skin. Jason groans, swearing as his fingers curl into the already-rumpled sheets.

“Is that a promise?” he asks, closing his eyes and tilting his head up so Tim can mouth at his Adam’s apple, and Tim smiles against his skin, a votive whisper trailing up his cheek.

Their marks never fade.

**Author's Note:**

> *coughs I don't know shit about physics so i'm sorry if the whole lambda thing is actually bs (let me know so i can correct it lmao, but i tried really hard to research it)
> 
> I was actually inspired by this [idea](http://www.boredpanda.com/mastectomy-abuse-scar-women-free-tattoo-flavia-carvalho-daedra-art-brasil/) where a woman does tattoos for survivors of domestic violence to cover scars so while i didn't directly touch upon the idea, i hope that it came through because i felt like it was actually a rather jason thing to do :3
> 
> [jason's left wrist tattoo](http://scienceblogs.com/pharyngula/wp-content/blogs.dir/470/files/2012/04/i-80fc7668e0d9b6472e8ada9562a78253-affinity.gif) I did also like it because it has a similar structure to the arkham logo but was still distinctive :3 Thank you to the unavenged for showing me this ^_^
> 
> My [tumblr](http://rivetingfabrications.tumblr.com/) if you feel like seeing what i'm reblogging when i'm not writing (nsfw and random shit, you have been warned lol)


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